


That thing inside your chest

by Gorrlaus



Category: Pentatonix
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Androids, Angst, Art, Cyborgs, Fanart, Hurt/Comfort, Love Again AU, M/M, Medical Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-03-25 06:09:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13828140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorrlaus/pseuds/Gorrlaus
Summary: A set of loose chapters and art: After the apocalyptic Downfall, Scott and Mitch try to survive by any means necessary. One day they find a broken android. Its chest gaping open and its hair and beard matted with blood.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Love Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8553121) by [MissingNickname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissingNickname/pseuds/MissingNickname). 



> I read MissingNickname's dark and excellent fic Love Again, then I re-read it, and then inspiration hit hard and I sat down and banged this out in one evening. This is a continuation of and an hommage to that fic :D 
> 
> This is not beta'd and I think I also invented a couple of words

 

He walks for a long time. His eyes hurt. Everything hurts. It’s too bright, then it’s too dark, and he can’t find his bearings. Commands repeat in his head, but they have no relevance.

_[Personal designation. A-17-R-3-L]_

_[Personal designation. A- ]_

_[Personal de - ]_

_[Pers -]_

_[P- ]_

 

Static.

 

———

 

”I found a mannequin.” Mitch says. He puts another bundle of sticks into the fire while he waits for Scott to realise that he just spoke, and then to ask what he said.

”Sorry, what?”

Scott looks up from his project and shuts off the blowtorch. He’s got soot all over his pale face, as per usual, his fingertips permanently blackened with the stuff. The light from the fireplace reflects off a big oil blotch on his cheek. Mitch can’t help but smile at his partner’s inability to avoid getting stained. Picking up one of Scott’s finished motor parts, he starts filling it up with oil.

”I said I found a mannequin. In a warehouse. Or, not a mannequin. An android maybe. It had a beard.”

Fiddling with the toplock, he manages to get all the oil into the chamber, his hands and sleeves still spotless. Scott could learn a thing or two if he would ever pay attention to how Mitch went about things. It’d save their washing.

”Whatever it was, it scared me. I didn’t dare to look closer. But it must have some valuable parts. I think it was an old MRT.”

”A Martie huh.” Scott pushes the protective masks up over his head. This could potentially be great news. If it was a newer Martie that Mitch had found, five years or less, it could mean food and supplies for at least a month - a month where Mitch wouldn’t have to turn tricks and he wouldn’t have to repair guns for an income.

These days food seems to be something they’re constantly running short on. After the latest ration laws were installed, feeding him and Mitch had gotten increasingly difficult. When the outlets were stocked they never seemed to have money, and when they were in the thick there always seemed to be a riot happening, where the currency had nothing to do with coins and more to do with who had the biggest guns and the sharpest elbows.

”If it’s a Martie, then it’s apple pies and steaks for us! Where did you find it?”

”Over by the impact zone.”

“Really?” Scott looks over to his trusty rifle. ”Well we better go then, before scavengers get it.”

—

At the rim of the zone, the ground is pockmarked with grenade craters and caved-in cellars. Heaps of rubble lie strewn among the ruined buildings and warehouses. This area was once the offloading area for the port, before the Downfall. No-one guards this area; not the government, not the military. Any spoils is up for grabs, if anyone would be dumb enough to want them.

The area is empty of habitants; not even the most reckless and daring would want to live here. Only the shadiest from the city's underbelly pass through. To decent people, it’s a no-go zone.

It’s easy enough to slip under the tall fence someone once optimistically erected to stop people from poisoning themselves. There are signs telling the reader to keep out; they tell of biohazard and health risks, but Scott knows the Downfall didn’t affect the whole area. It’s navigatable, if you have local knowledge and a device sensitive enough to detect radiation shifts.

Mitch knows the area like the back of his hand. His family had no strings to pull, and no financial means to get something more decent than a shack below the highway overpass, just next door to the impact zone. Scott knows that Mitch grew up with bright blue anti-rad paste smeared on his face and neck to prevent him from getting poisoned. The paste was so plenty that his skin got permanently stained blue around his eyes and on his neck, but at least he didn't get radiation sickness.

Thus, the Grassis managed to keep at least one of their three children.

Scott ties his tattered scarf around his neck one more time, picks out a piece of dust that got into the corner of his eye. The walk is dusty and the dim daylight isn’t helping him get a clear scan of the area. He grips his rifle tighter, takes comfort in the long-bladed knife stuck down his boot.

The wind is picking up, driving tiny spikes of rain into their faces. There used to be seasons, but now the passing of time seems suspended, blended into a permanent grey drizzle. They walk on as the raw wind is picking up, blowing up smoke from the bay. The impact zone is filling up with thin veils of smoke, scattering the light and rendering the area even gloomier.

It’s a strange place to lose a Martie, even more so a valuable android.

”It was in here.” Mitch says, pointing to an especially decrepit warehouse that is more steel skeleton than actual building. ”I was picking scraps, and that’s when I saw it.”

Scott negotiates a broken-down door, barely squeezing through a tiny opening that Mitch just cleared without a second thought. Ducking for rusty chains hanging from the ceiling, he squints in the dim light. Mitch points and then he sees it: a small, black-clad figure laying slumped against the far wall.

”Holy shit! Mitchie! We lucked out!” Scott whispers. They climb over a pile of rubble, mindful not to make too much noise that could attract attention. This looks very promising and he really doesn’t want to alert some second grade scavenger to their presence.

”I can’t believe no-one found it yet. That must be an android, not a Martie! Look how lifelike it is! We’ll have food for months!”

“Apple pies!“ Mitch whispers. ”Steaks!”

”Shhh! As if we need any more encouragement”

They slowly approach the still figure, Mitch one tentative step behind Scott.

It’s not very big, about the same size and slender build as Mitch. Its dark clothes are tattered and dirty. Scott can’t help the smile spreading over his face; this is a high end model. There is expensive metal work on its head; circuits in titan and silver span its right temple and run down over its cheekbone. Cables emerge from the back of its head; together with its long human hair they make up an impressive ponytail cascading down over one shoulder.

There is a weird detail on it though – it’s sporting a neat beard.

The android, if that’s what it is, stares straight ahead, the whites of its kohl-rimmed eyes shining in the glum.

It does look scary, and incredibly life-like. Scott crouches down at a respectable distance from it.

”Wait, are those knives in its hands? With blood on them? Fuck, it got blood all over it! Look, its clothes are drenched...” He swallows around a sick feeling rising in his throat. ”What did they use this one for? Murder? Massacrers?”

Scooting closer, he's aware that Mitch is hesitatingly following a good two steps behind him. ”...but who would put a beard on a Martie? Or an android for that matter. Never seen that before.”

”Are you sure it’s...dead?” Mitch asks somewhere behind his back.

”Trust me, this one hasn’t moved for weeks. Look at the layer of dust on it. Definitely deactivated.”

Jaw set with concentration, he leans forward, reaches out to touch its head.

The sudden movement is fast, jerky, but efficient. It slices the air just in front of Scott’s hand with one of its long knives, one, two times.

”SHIT!!”

Scott jumps to high heaven, manages to turn 180 degrees in the air, and almost lands on Mitch before they both scramble backwards, hitting the pile of rubble with a crash and a bang.

”It’s not deactivated!” Mitch shouts superfluously, eyes wide with fear.

”I get that! Fuck!”

Effectively cornered by the rubble, they sheepishly turn to face the android. It's in the same position as before, seemingly immobile, its eyes staring into nothing.

”Hey?” Scott tries. ”Mr Android?”

”You made it react somehow! What did you do? Oh fuck, why does it have _knives_.” Mitch whines.

”I don’t think it can hear me..? It reacted when I tried to...” Scott moves slowly, ever so carefully, towards the figure.

”Are you crazy? It could kill you! Scott, get back here! What if it gets up?”

”It might. But I don’t think it will. ” he goes forward on shaky legs, going as far as he dares, stopping a hand’s breath away from the earlier trigger point. This close, details begin to stand out. It has green eyes, finely detailed with tiny veins, and there are faint wrinkles on its forehead. A pale birth mark on its cheek.

It’s a perfect likeness of a real human.

”It’s not a Martie.” Scott’s heart sinks in his chest. ”It’s not an android either. This...I think this was a _person_.” He rubs his jaw, tries to remember what he's heard. Bits and snippets from the underground news: how prisoners, political or otherwise, had died in jail, or at least had stopped being _present_ in jail. How streetwalkers and druggies and other non-desireables with limited social circles had gone missing. Rumours had been circulating; rumours about people reduced to nothing more than bloody carcasses turning up on the doorsteps of their loved ones, drawing their last shaky breaths through steel mesh and botched stitching. Stories too horrible to think about. Facts that simply couldn't be correct, truths that needed to be collectively pushed away and forgotten because that was the only way to keep going.

But here is proof, right in front on him. This must be one of them.

He can’t take his eyes off the metal parts; the circuits grafted into soft skin, steel pushing through its temple and marring its wrists.

”This used to be someone. One of those people that disappear.”

”It’s _human_?” Mitch whispers.

Neither of them are prepared for the sudden reaction. The being’s wide eyes jump to Mitch’s face, expression unchanging.

Mitch squeaks with fear, but stands his ground. ”Oh my god…you’re alive! Poor thing! I think I’m gonna be sick. Hi, um... Can you see me?” He waves with his arm outstretched, still at a safe distance.

”Those things on his face must have hurt.” Scott says quietly. ”…I never seen one for real before. I thought it couldn’t be this...bad. Amazing. In a bad way. Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair. ”Is he even alive anymore?”

Mitch bravely crouches down, hands on his knees, in front of the android. ”Hello? Sir? Oh Scott, we have to help him!”

”I’m not sure how to – I mean he doesn’t react well. Like, he just tried to stab me? And he’s not communicating.”

Mitch turns to give him a look of pure determination. “We are _not_ leaving him here.”

”Look, I don’t think there’s anyone home.” Scott says, morosely studying the horror in front of them. ”They did a real number on him. This _thing_....this android... could be dangerous.”

What would the alternatives be? If the person had indeed died, they should leave this husk and let someone with less of a conscience short-circuit and butcher it for the metal.

If somebody is still inside though...what then?

Mitch looks at him calmly, a steely undertone in his voice. “We are _not_ _leaving him here_.”

And that’s when Scott knows. Life hits forks in the road, and this is a major one. He could try and talk Mitch out of bringing home a possibly super-strong, and potentially remote controlled android that is, yeah, is clutching _bloody knives_ in its fists, that doesn't respond to stimuli in any other way than staring creepily at Mitch or trying to stab them. He could do that.

Or he could just give in and accept facts: there is no way his partner is ever going to abandon somebody who might need his help. He can see Mitch has already made up his mind.

Sighing, he looks at the knives. They look very sharp, and very bloody.

”So...any ideas?”

-

There is nothing. Until the white noise is broken by:

_[ALERT. Incoming.]_

His arm moves of its own accord, stabs the air one, two times.

The sudden movement makes the messages start up again. _[System report unit A-17-R-3-L. 70%. Maintenance required. 56-7-23. 67-7-223-6. 55-352-32-91. 0.054.23.76. ERROR: Return to base.]_

Through the static comes a voice. It calls him human. His eyes jump to the source of the words but the image that comes through is blurred and fractured. The voice continues to speak. Then it sings. It carries through his audio receptors and washes his mind with light. Nothing exists, nothing except the voice. He takes solace in it. It alleviates the pain. For a long time it is the only thing that fills his mind. It sings in a language he can understand.

 

_The dew of the morning_

_Sunk chill on my brow_

 

_[System report unit A-17-R-3-L. 74%. Maintenance required. 56-7-24. 67-7-225-6. 55-352-33-08. 0.054.23.76. ERROR: Return to base.]_

He misses a part of the song when his mind is again speared by the machine code. But he has to focus. Someone hurt him. Or: they tried to hurt him, but his programming didn’t let them.

It’s confusing and he’s so tired. So very tired.

The person singing has moved closer. Their voice is low and soft and sweet.

 

_It felt like the warning_

_of what I feel now_

 

Moving his eyes is hard work, but he makes the effort. Ignoring the pain radiating from his dried-up corneas, he tries to focus on the visual input. The signals flicker, get jumbled up with static. He wills the blur away. Something is gradually emerging from the chaos. A dark-haired, pale-skinned figure is sitting at his side. He shines like a star, a halo of fractured light glittering around his dark head. His eyes are closed as he forms words, sings them with a perfect, heavenly voice:

 

_If I should meet thee_

_After long years,_

_How should I greet thee?_

_With silence and t-_

 

“ - oh hey. You moved! You’re looking at me again!” He scoots closer, a bright smile illuminating his face. ”Hi! I’m Mitch. Nice to meet you. Wow, your eyes are beautiful! You really have an intense stare don’t ya. Is it ok if I move closer? Is this ok? Can I touch you? I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise.”

When Mitch reaches out to touch the tip of his boot, Avriel lets him.

—-

  
_[Repair completed. Physical state 100% restored.]_

_Shutupshutupshutupshutup_

”Can you walk?” Mitch asks.

So he walks.

Mitch leads on and a tall blonde man is trailing them, weapon at the ready. He doesn’t care where they are taking him, doesn’t care about anything at all. His synapses twist and cramp around the foreign android mind, struggling to hold on to a semblance of himself.

They’re walking in daylight, and in the middle of an open road. The invading systems in his head goes haywire about the stupidity, how untactical this is, but it doesn't matter. Even the constant pain doesn't matter anymore.

In the preciously few clear moments, a few seconds here and there, he thinks about Kevin. How they loved each other. All the times his man held him close, his strong arms like a cradle, like home. How he could feel Kevin’s heartbeat inside him as they lay together. Avriel had cried many times, amazed at how sensitive his broken body was and how carefully his man had carried it, worshipped it like it wasn’t an ugly ruin of something once human. How Kevin used to kiss the frayed joints between his real body and his android parts, how he had made him cry out with a new, sweet pain on their makeshift bedding in front of the fireplace. His brave, clever, loving man.

_[Systems online 100% Phase 2 initiated.]_

He is going to die soon. These are probably the last lucid moments he will ever have, and for that he is glad.

–

Scott clears the mess on his working table with a broad sweep of his arm, kicking away the tool box and the gas tubes to make space. Their place looks like the dumps, with the workshop spilling into the living area. The small cellar space could do with a good cleaning and a bit of TLC. Light pools down from makeshift ventilation holes in the ceiling, a ceiling which also would have served as the floor on what used to be the ground level, if the rest of the building was still standing. Together with the fire in the homemade burner the ventilation holes illuminate the dank space. The two small windows close to the ceiling, facing the street, are patched up with cardboard, the glass long gone. One day Scott intends to re-do the roof and brick up the windows because this is just too damp and cold to be healthy.

Not that their current guest seems inclined to give any critique.

The android, or whatever the correct term for it is, is wearing a slight frown, eerily staring at nothing in particular. One of its arms is shaking, a back and forward movement too fast and exact to be human. Mitch is holding on to its other arm, rubbing gently up and down in a presumed effort to keep it calm and under control.

Somehow his genius partner has persuaded it to let go of the knives, which makes everything a lot easier.

Scott gives it what he hopes is a friendly smile. ”Hey, could you hop up on the work table? It’d be great if I could take a closer look at you.”

There is no response.

”Mitchy, help me get him up here and under the light?”

Mitch pulls gently on its arm, while also touching its back, and it takes a few uncertain steps towards the table.

”Hop up here, please?” Scott tries another smile, but charm is clearly not doing the trick in this case. He wonders how much human is still left in there. ”Okay, you can stand too, no problem.”

”Hey, could you move a bit for me?” Mitch says softly while slowly applying pressure to its arm, manoeuvring it so it can feel the edge of the table against the back of its legs. ”There we go, sweetie. And up, okay?”

The semi-android makes one quick motion and is suddenly sitting on the table.

”Well, he clearly has a preference.” Scott mutters. He picks up a light to illuminate the circuits on the side of its face. They gleam silver in the cold glow from the work lamp, turning darker where they pierce through the flesh.

”This is insane. I have only heard about what they do...never seen one. Never known one either. I mean before they are taken.” He moves his head in front of its face, tries to meet its eyes. It’s sickening how the metal pierces through the delicate skin at its temple and crawls down over its cheek like a cancerous growth. He wonders what it looks like underneath the leather jacket and the pants and boots, how much damage has been done.

”I hate them so much. This poor man!” Mitch hisses.

The cyborg stares. Its arm continues to shake, seemingly caught in a loop.

”Hi...again.” Scott tries. ”I’m Scott, and this is Mitch. He probably told you already. That he’s Mitch, I mean. So, yeah, that’s Mitch...” he trails off.

”Scott...I think he gets it.” Mitch says.

”Yeah. Thank you, _Mitch_. Anyway, welcome to our place. We’ve never seen a...human-android before. A humdroid. A cyborg?” He forces a smile, feeling like a proper idiot. ”So, what is _your_ name?”

No response. The cyborg stares into nothing with a troubled expression, its eyes wide and unblinking.

”I don’t think he’s 100% with us.” Mitch says. ”That metal-thingy probably goes straight through his brain. I could see he liked it when I sang for him in the warehouse though. Even though you don't believe me! I'm telling you he looked at me twice when I sang.”

”Maybe he was looking for the cat who got strangled. Ow!” Scott strokes his arm where Mitch pinched him. ”Crap, I don’t think I can’t fix whatever is wrong. Wouldn’t know where to start. Never seen these units.”

Scott reaches out to touch the circuits on its face.

The cyborg _screams_.

–

After getting the panicking man off the table and into their bedroom, and after injecting him with a small fortune of black market morphine, they have to sweep two shots of gilch each to calm their nerves. Scott glances over at the slight form lying on their bed, seemingly out of it, his eyes still eerily open.

Mitch leans forward over the dirty table top, strokes dark bangs from his forehead. “Okay honey, so what have we learned?”

“Don’t touch his circuits.” Scott hangs his head.

“Don’t touch his circuits. Thank you.” Sweeping the last of the liquor, Mitch coughs with the impact. He purses his lips as he turns to look at the cyborg. “I wish he’d stop staring like that. It’s scary.”

”I don’t think he can close his eyes.” Scott mumbles. “I’ll take a look at it if he lets me. I doubt I can do very much though. If it was a MRT or an android, maybe. But bio-tech...that’s the government’s business.”

—

In the feather-soft bubble of morphine, he dreams. Repetitive imagery, loops and code; faces of people known and unknown, long gone. Even in sleep, his mind struggles to quieten down the machine. A crackle comes through his audio receptors; sounds from a fireplace. The air is damp. Maybe he’s back in the cistern. Kevin dies in his arms. He takes his last breath easily, without much struggle, as easy as he ever did anything. His strong heart stops beating.

The sorrow comes in waves. They hit hard and pull him under, down into a dark maelstrom. Wrapping his arms around himself, he tries to find some comfort in the memory of Kevin, warm and safe, spooning him, anchoring him down, his arms over his own.

The grief abates temporarily. He cries, lost in the morphine torpor. The tears moisten his eyes. Making no effort to wipe them away, he lets them run down his nose and cheeks.

—

Mitch sits by the cyborg’s bedside. It’s hard to tell if their guest is sleeping or awake, his leather-clad backside giving no clues. He lies like a dead weight, soundless, with no detectable breathing movement.

While waiting for him to come to, Mitch sings the sweetest and most calming songs he can think of. He amuses himself with a ballad from the Old World about the hazards of love, with lots of runs in the refrain.

He has just reached the part where the poor lady finds her knight trapped by a troll, as you do, and must prove her love for him to get him free, when he’s distracted by a movement. The man has turned over and is looking at him with shiny eyes.

”I know how to love.”

His voice is a deep monotone, infinitely sad in its eveness. Mitch has to fight down a sudden urge to cry.

”Hey there! That's, um...great! Do you like it when I sing for you about love?” Trying not to look at the gleaming circuits, he meets the other man's eyes properly for the first time. There's definitely a person in there.

”Do you know my name?”

”M-mit. Mi-sch. _Mitch_.” the man says, moving his lips with some effort. He starts pulling himself up to a half-sitting position, but stops when his head suddenly jerks violently to one side, an unplanned and pointless movement. Reining back control, he turns to focus on Mitch again.

”Yes! That’s me. What’s your name?”

”A -“

He frowns; another twitch of his head. It’s hard to watch how his infected brain struggles for control.

“Av - Avriel.”

Mitch smiles. ”That’s a beautiful name. Sounds like an angel.”

Something passes over his face, fleeting but absolutely aware. Chills run up Mitch’s spine. The man's gaze gets sharper, more focused. There is no doubt that what is sitting before him is a real human being.

”It’s the name of a fallen angel.”

The moment passes just as quickly. His eyes revert back to their blank state, a frown of his face. Mitch shivers. It’s only now that he sees that the diagonal zip of the leather jacket has been pulled down slightly. From the angle the man’s sitting, he can see down the opening. Pristine white skin, the raise and dip of a collarbone, and below it….

Nothing.

His heart runs cold. There is nothing there. First he thinks it’s a trick of the light, or some weird typ of clothing, but the more he looks, the more certain he is. Where Avriel’s body would start gaining volume, where his chest would begin to curve outwards, it’s just...dark. A hollow.

Mitch trembles, his voice barely above a whisper. ”Why did you carry knives? What _happened_ to you?”

Avriel just stares at him, eyes expressionless and shiny. He turns to lie down again.

——

When Mitch appears, he’s all dolled up. Tight pants, two large silver necklaces, kohl around his eyes and rings on his fingers, pale face made even paler with powder and chalk.

“He’s asleep again. Or, I don’t know.. He’s lying down at least.”

He sinks into Scott’s lap, sneaking one arm around his neck, smelling of makeup and perfume.

“Hope he wakes soon, I can’t wait to get his clothes off!” Scott exclaims.

Mitch shoots him a _look._

“No, not in _that_ way. Du-uh. I want to see what’s under there. Wait, why are you all nice and perfumy?”

”Apple pies and steaks, remember.” Mitch pats his belly. "We need to eat."

Scott frowns. “Are you going tricking? I don’t think we can leave it – I mean him – alone in here. What if he panics again?”

Mitch kisses his cheek. “Don’t worry hun, I’m going to a favorite client - the old man. So you don’t have to come with. He's always on his best behaviour."

\----

After Mitch has fluttered off, Scott goes to the kitchen corner to find something to eat. A torn-out magazine page taped over the storage chest is the only spark of colour in this area. He has looked at the photos on the page many times – one of a steak, the other of an apple pie. Maybe one day they will get the chance to eat a real steak or pie.

Truth is, right now they’re not just chronically low on Elite food, but also on the real thing. And now, with another mouth to feed...

He stops in his tracks. What do cyborgs like to eat? Do they even eat? Collecting the last of the wheat from the barrel, he decides that will be the first question for their guest when he wakes up. Meanwhile, he’ll get some porridge going for Mitch to eat when he gets back. He hopes the old man will be generous this time.

 

 


	2. Eyes wide open

It rarely happens, and only when they make love. Kevin thinks he will never forget the first time he saw it.

That night had been especially chilly, even for late autumn. The warmth from the fire had trouble penetrating the damp gloom of the cistern. They were lying together in post-coital bliss, Avriel resting in his arms and Kevin stroking stray hairs away from his pale face.

The semi-android had blinked, bird-like and quick, and Kevin’s breath hitched in surprise.

Then he had closed his eyes.

Kevin’s gut reaction had been one of fright. Something was terribly wrong! Were Avriel’s eyelids malfunctioning? Maybe he'd been overwhelmed by what they just did and had stressed himself into a system failure? Could this be a sign of imminent shutdown?

Supressing the urge to call out his name and slap his face, Kevin took a moment to do a visual check of his pale cyborg. Nothing else seemed to be wrong – the facial micro movements, the faint purr of the generator inside his chest, the warm, steady glow from his cooling systems – everything seemed to be in normal working order.

They had talked about it, then. Kevin hated the haunted expression on Avriel’s face as he spoke about vertigo and how his mostly-human eyes chafed as they jumped around, looking for any potential threat to the android. How afraid he was to lose control completely. How he didn’t dare to blink because if he lost his visuals - if he lost one milimeter of firm ground - he might fall into permanent darkness.

But, Avriel said, sometimes when Kevin held him, and loved him – and here Kevin’s heart did funny things – he felt strong and grounded enough to take the reins of the chaos lurking inside him. He trusted Kevin completely. Nothing would threaten him from the outside, and nothing would rise up from the inside, as long as Kevin was there. Closing his eyes was the ultimate sign of trust.

–

  
Some days later, when Kevin’s hand has found its way inside Avriel’s ribcage to touch that special spot below his heart, it happens again. Busy with advanced finger work, he doesn’t notice that the brightness of Avriel’s wide eyes is suddenly gone from his peripheral vision. He can feel the semi-android’s smile against his cheek, and as he turns to kiss him, he is not met by green but with the kohled dark of Avriel’s closed eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I drew the pic above of Kevin and Avriel snuggling, but when I was done I realised I had forgotten that Avriel doesn't really close his eyes.. so I wrote a drabble to go with the image. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Haze from the morning still lingers over the canal. It blends with the smog, creating a bell jar of pollution over the city. The sun is just visible behind the fog, the sunlight giving the air a sickly yellow glow. Mitch pulls his coat around him to ward off the chill as he hurries back home. The coins in his pocket jingle quietly. It was a lucrative night all in all - the old man had been more that generous.  
  
He had also been informative. They had talked some afterwards, while sharing their customary cup of tea, about the rumours of people disappearing and the re-appearing. Mitch’ favourite client didn’t have long in this world, and so he had willingly shared what he’d picked up over the years as a civil servant. Rumour had it that they kept the real names of the mutilated victims as a model number, just for a laugh, a final assault. Eliza turned into 3-L-1-ZA by bone saw and electro plating. Why they did it in the first place - invest so much time and effort into hacking up their own citizens - well that was anybody’s guess.  
  
Once, the old man said, a colleague had told him that he knew of a guy who had seen one in real life. It had been rushed to the Emergency after being found crawling around a parking lot close to the hospital’s main entrance. Nothing could be done of course, and so the unlucky bastard had expired on a stretcher in the emergency room. The story didn’t rang true though, the old man said, because why would an institution spend time and money on something they’d let run free? That goes without saying, expensive products like cyborgs would have all sorts of tracking devices and alarms installed. They wouldn’t just lose them in the streets. And they definitely wouldn’t let them waltz into a public hospital.  
  
Mitch fiddles with his silver necklaces, fingers trembling as he walks along the dark water of the canal.  
  
_Of course._ He should have thought of that when they found the cyborg! Tracking devices. It made perfect sense. Avriel must be fitted with a tracker that tells his abductors where he is at all times.

Mitch wants to kick himself. As long as Avriel is under their roof, he and Scott could be in danger.  
  
Grave danger.  
  
He must let Scott know immediately.  
  
Picking up pace, he notices a group of black-clad figures over on the other side of the water. The police seems to be out in force today. The troop is overlooking a small crowd of protesters, batons in fists and shields raised. Trying to look as non-suspect as possible, Mitch pulls his coat tighter. Those black uniforms are never a welcome sight. They are hard to see from this distance, but Mitch knows there must be a small flock of spy drones floating above the police, weaving in and out of the crowd. Constantly receiving and sending information, they record every whisper, every expression of the people below them. These drones makes him think of carrion flies; black and bloated with data, they are a constant reminder that no-one should try anything, at least not without balaclavas on.  
  
The drones seem to hone in on the part of the crowd that shout the loudest. Some of the uniforms is beating people over the heads with their batons. Mitch looks even though he shouldn’t. He gets a glimpse of what the commotion is about just before a drone turns its red, all-seeing eye on him: two bodies in the street, beaten up and with their clothes torn halfway off. There is something written in black marker across their chests.  
  
TRAITOR  
  
Mitch puts his head down and scurries along, casting nervous glances behind him. The walkway is empty: no drone has taken up the chase.  
  
—  
  
He killed people. Just after Kevin died, just before he left the cistern, he put Kevin’s knives into them and they went down, crying and screaming. Their red bodies lay on the ground, writhing next to the quiet stillness of his beloved.  
  
He lost himself at that point. Broken and annihilated, he just _stopped_.  
  
But the human brain is designed to endure. He thought his body would fail without nourishment, but his new innards had other ideas. The power kept generating, kept sending something akin to blood through his veins, insistently pushing and pulsing. One beat, then another, and one after that, too.  
  
They took out his heart of flesh and replaced it with a more durable one of steel. And so he lives on, in spite of himself.  
  
—  
  
The rain has picked up: a persistent drizzle turned into a deluge of heavy drops hammering on the concrete above their heads. Mitch thinks how wonderful it would be to see the sun again, to feel its warmth as it would scorch the eternal moisture from the streets. But it’s been awhile now. The hazy sky above the city is gray and impenetrable and unchanging, much like their concrete ceiling. He grabs his bowl and scoots closer to the fire.  
  
Twisting and turning the spoon around, he scrapes off another bit of food from the edge of the bowl and reluctantly brings it to his mouth. The spoonful of porridge becomes a sticky lump on his tongue, each mouthful becoming harder to swallow. He’s _so tired_ of the oaty blandness that some days he just wants to scream.  
  
“Hey, Scott, this porridge is good! Wow, is this real butter?”  
  
Their friend Matt is there, eagerly digging into the grey mass. Some days Mitch hates him for his sunny demeanour and positive attitude, no matter how dire the situation. He’s so young and unspoiled, frustratingly happy and seemingly trouble-free, though Mitch knows that not to be the case. The desire to drag him down to his own level of anxiety and doubt, to call him out on his happiness, makes Mitch feel even worse.

But: his own issues aside,  Scott gets happier when Matt is around, and that counts for something.  
  
Mitch pushes the sticky porridge paste around in his bowl, smiles when Matt says something and Scott laughs, half-listening to their conversation. The person currently occupying their bed weighs heavily on his mind. He really needs to tell Scott right away about the tracker-thing, but he doesn't want to do it with Matt around. They'd need to discuss it, just him and Scott. After all, Avriel is their responsibility.

"...did you hear about the couple that got beaten and strung up two blocks away from you guys?" Matt says.

Mitch jumps back to reality.  "What?"

Matt’s forehead is crinkled up with worry-lines, his infectious smile gone.  “Yeah, I heard it over the taps. It happned just now, today. They tried for the border. Got ratted out by their own relatives.”  
  
“Oh my god, I think I saw that!” Mitch clasps a hand over his mouth. "It must have been them. The police didn't even try to take the bodies away."  
  
“It’s getting worse.” Scott mumbles, looking down into his empty bowl. They all sit quietly for a moment, thinking about the implications this could have.

"So, your houseguest..?" Matt begins. "Is he still around? Scott, you mentioned..."

"Yeah, sure!" Scott is up in two seconds, happy for a change of topic. "He's in our bed, has been since yesterday. I gave him some Novocaine for the pain. So he's probably still sleeping it off."

  
Scott walks over to their sleeping area and carefully sticks his head behind the curtain making up the wall of their bedroom.

“Okay so he’s still asleep. I think. I’m gonna warn you: his eyes are always open so don’t freak out, okay? He looks a bit scary.”  
  
"I'm nervous you guys!" Matt clears his troat and takes Scott's place, peeking around the curtain. Mitch braces himself.  
  
“Oh wow." Their friend's voice is barely audible, his words drowning in Scott's:  "Shhh, he _is_ _sleeping_." Perking his ears, Mitch strains to hear the reaction.

"He looks - wait, is that a... Jesus Christ!” Matt slaps a hand over his mouth - the last syllable comes out muffled.  
  
Scott beams, pulls the curtain closed. “I know, right? Now when you mention it he does look a bit like Jesu-“  
  
“ _I’m sure_ ” Mitch interrupts him “he didn’t mean it like that. Okay now, we better let him sleep in peace. C'me on Matt, we'll fill you in on the details."

  
——

  
  
A few hours after Matt has left, and after some coaxing from both him and Mitch, their guest finally rises from the bed. After even more coaxing, they manage to get him to agree to a shower, seeing how he's still mostly drenched in dried blood which has started to smell bad. Mitch scrunches up his face after the cyborg has staggered off towards the washing area, looking at their dirty bedding with disgust.  
  
It’s deeply frustrating, Scott thinks. He’s dying to know what their guest looks like underneath his clothes, but he can’t really ask him to strip, and he has a hunch the old _show-me-yours-I’ll-show-you-mine_ wouldn’t quite work either. And now, when the cyborg has decided to make use of their bathroom facilities (a shower handle connected to a rainwater tap, plus a floor drain) there is literally only a thin shower curtain separating him from the soon-to-be naked semi-android.  
  
If Scott would pull the curtain back, what would he see?  
  
Biting one of his blackened fingertips in frustration, he hears Avriel's heavy jacket land on the floor, followed by a rattle from his belt and pants being pulled down and dropped. He imagines he can see the silhouette through the curtain. Wait, but he _can_ see something! A faint glow, blood-orange red, barely visible but definitely there -

  
"Scott?" Mitch waves a hand in front of his eyes. “Come here for a second...there’s something I need to tell you. Something I heard last night. About Avriel.”

  
  
——

  
The washing area is as spartan as the rest of the cellar. Mould and fungi mottles the concrete walls, creating landscapes of insufficient draining.  The designated area is only equipped with a drain, a bucket and a hose with a shower handle taped to it, but even this is more than what he and Kevin had in the cistern.

  
Avriel moves the shower handle carefully to avoid it splashing everywhere. The water is so cold that it burns, but it helps numbing the constant pain.  
  
There is a bottle of shampoo - real shampoo! - next to the drain, just like Scott had mentioned. It smells of synthetic fruits.  _‘You can absolutely use the shampoo’_ Scott had said, so he pours some into his twitching hand.  
  
The memory is there in an instant: Kevin had come home one evening with a bottle of conditioner, almost half of it left. His lips and hands had been cold from the chill outside. After Kevin had excused the fact that he couldn’t find any shampoo to go with the conditioner, they had spent a long time untangling the cords and knotted tressed on Avriel’s head. It felt wonderful to finally be able to scratch his scalp, the tension gone with the undoing of the tight ponytail.  After a comb-through, he had thoroughly washed both the foreign cords and his own hair with the sweet-smelling conditioner and warm water heated over the fire. That had been a great day.  
  
If only Kevin could seen him now. He finally got to use shampoo.  
  
Getting the grime and blood out off his hair and beard is a relief. He drenches a coarse rag in soapy water and scrubs his skin until it glows pink. The places where metal joins flesh are the hardest to get clean. He is careful not to get any water into his chest- and abdomen cavity. Presumably some dirt and dust have gotten inside him too, but he can’t even entertain the thought of reaching in and cleaning _in there_.  
  
He still doesn’t dare to put water on his face and into the circuits, so he uses a dampened corner of a towel to clean the intricate metalwork of dried blood. As he carefully pats the metal, his hand decides to act up: it twitches backwards, pulls at the joint the wrong way. He yelps with surprise and sudden pain. The constant throb of his body fighting against the metal has only become so much white noise. It’s bearable. It’s when he bends his wrists too much, or turns his head too fast - then it flares up, a whip lash of remembrance.  
  
_Freak._  
  
He must ask them for more Novocaine.   

  
The towel Scott gave him is surprisingly new and whole. Wrapping himself up, he feels a little bit better now when all the dirt is gone. It's not really tempting to put his old grimy clothes on again. He looks morosely at his dirty jacket. It’s a a beautiful piece of leather. It looks expensive and it’s possible he was very proud of it once. It must have been his, right? Or did _they_ …did he get it when -  
  
The blow comes unexpected. He doubles over, his belly cramping up, fresh pain spreading along his spine. The mere thought is like a punch in the guts. Time didn’t exist - he didn’t exist - before Kevin found him, and yet he must have, because something happened, but he can’t  - _can’t_ -  
  
_[ A-17-R-3-L. Return to base. All systems 100%. ]_  
   
The voice chimes in his head as he goes down on all fours, retching over the drain. _[ A-17-R-3-L. Return to base. All systems 100%. Phase II initiated. A-17-R-3-L. Ey-seventeen-aar-three-el.]_ As if the machine part of him senses his weakness.  
  
Panting through the rising panic attack, he manages to get his legs under him and get up from the floor, shaking like a new-born colt. There is a low buzzing in his ears, as if some membrane has come loose.

 _No_. Nothing happened. He didn’t exist before Kevin, so everything he might remember - must be wrong!  
  
Shaking off the sickening thoughts, he picks up his tattered and blood-stained pants and puts them on. They are a tight model, but still a loose fit on his thin legs and narrow hips. Pulling a face, he buttons them up, focusing on how the fabric feels, the chill of the concrete floor against his bare feet.  
  
When he exits the washing area, Mitch and Scott are there. They are both looking at him, their eyes bright with worry and mouths twisted into tense half-smiles.

 

 

 


	4. Yours was the first face that I saw

Oops my pen slipped...can't seem to stop drawing these two! Tried it with an open eye but Avi looked too scared so I went with closed again. A beardless version can be found on my tumblr iguana-sneeze!

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! What can I say, I love writing about androids/cyborgs I also continued the pic from earlier and fleshed it out a bit. Lost the beard on the way too, oops. So technically it's not an RPS anymore, without the facial hair XD

“Can you tell us anything about what happened to you?” Scott’s forehead is crinkled with concern, blue eyes wide. “Please, anything you can remember? There could be a tracker installed on you…in you…somewhere.”  
  
“If there is, we need to get it out.” Mitch supplies. He looks nervous. “It’s risking our well-being, I mean, mine and Scott’s too,  if that thing sends information back to the place where you - uh oh. Scott, what is he doing?”  
  
The pain in his head is surprising with it’s intensity. The voice is back, so loud he can’t even make out the words. Trying to find his bearings, he leans toward the nearest wall for support but with the way his eyes are moving on their own, jumping around, he’s too dizzy to make out where exactly the wall is and instead he stumbles, almost falling over. Not having anything solid to hold on to, his mind lurches and dives. _No. Don’t blink!_  
  
The world surges, and suddenly it’s as if he’s underwater. A different room, different smells and sounds. There is a steel table and he can’t move.  
  
He can’t move.  
  
_He can’t move._  
  
Cold metal against his back; legs, arms and torso fixed and immovable, and there’s something holding his head down too. A gossamer blindfold makes everything blurred out. Shapes circle around where he's lying. People in white medical coats. Machines.

“Let’s begin then.” A man’s voice, behind and to the left. “The sooner we get it done, the sooner we can grab lunch.”

A flash of light: the pain is instant and overwhelming. Not like a broken bone or a cut, but radiating from his very core; white-hot rays in his whole body leaving nothing to hold on to, red and bright and all-encompassing. It takes a moment to realise he's screaming.  The sound is primal, involuntary; it tears out of him, only stopping when he runs out of air, and when he tries to inhale something is obstructing his breathing.

The pain and lack of oxygen is sending him into a panic, but he still can’t move even half an inch. There’s warm liquid in his mouth, spilling out over his chin.

“Wow!” someone says. “Impressive set of lungs on this one! Should we cut his vocal chords?”

Voices from far away; a mumbled answer.  

A cool hand on his forehead. He tries to speak, but can’t because his mouth is full of his own blood.

Gasping for air, he bangs his head hard against the surface he’s lying on.

_The operating table!_

“Avriel!”

He can move his head again. The cold slab disappears as he is lifted up into a sitting position.

Someone is hugging him, holding him tight, soft skin against his cheek. The sharpness of a needle and then a cold, crisp wave washes over his mind, flushing out the burning pain. That heavenly voice again, so sweet and angelic. His vision returns gradually. There is no blood, no operating table. As the darkness clears the only thing he sees is Mitch’ worried face.

  
“Shhh, sweetie, I got you. I’m not letting you go. We’ll figure it out. We’ll fix this.”

—  
  
“How the bloody fuck are we gonna fix this?”  Scott scratches his pale-stubbled chin absently, taking in the scene before him. The body on the mattress is splayed out like a ragdoll, a broken mannequin with its arms and legs flopped out and head bent backwards.  
  
It might have been a shitty thing to do, but he tries to tell himself it was for the best. While Avriel had his panic attack and Mitch was busy keeping him from banging his head on the concrete floor, Scott had injected an assortment of strong pain killers into his neck. Their guest had quickly calmed down but was still pretty out of it, and so Scott had helped him to properly enter the land of dreams by giving him another shot, this time a hearty dose of morphine. Mitch had glared daggers, but it had been the only way to quickly gain insight in the tracker situation.  
  
At least gaining as much insight as their knowledge of these things would let them. As they laid the feather-light body down on their bed however, and Mitch started with the zipper, it quickly became apparent that a quick check for small devices hidden in the cyborg’s clothes was probably not what the situation called for.  
  
Because this was something on a whole other level.  
  
“Oh my god! I think I'm gonna be sick!” Mitch opens the zipped jacket with shaking hands, laying Avriel’s chest bare. “Oh fuck!”  
  
“Yeah.” Scott says, keeping himself from freaking out because Mitch is, and someone has to keep a straight head. “You could say that again.”  
  
The body in their bed is what could easiest be described as half-a-human. The shell is still there, so to speak. But its contents, everything from the collarbones down to the crotch, is gone and replaced by what looks like high tech machinery. Someone has gutted the poor guy like a fish and given him a completely new set of innards. It reminds Scott of the deer his father used to hunt before the Downfall; steaming bodies hanging from the roof beams in the shed, split open and hollowed out.

It’s fascinating, in a sickening way. Scott leans over the semi-android, barely noting how Mitch retches in the background. The heavy jacket served a purpose by keeping the tech mess in place while protecting every delicate organ from the elements. The edges of the huge opening are not very neat, frayed as they are, almost scorched in places.  It looks...unfinished. Presumably they had intended to do more work on him, but only had time to do the insides before Avriel somehow found an opportunity to escape.

“Holy fuck.” Scott whispers. “This is some next level technology shit right here. Mitch, look. This is the glowing thing that I saw earlier through the shower curtain. It must be the heart?”

The lump in question sits in the middle of the chest, slightly to the left, and is hooked up to a number of pipes and wires that could be taken for arteries at a squint. Two rib-like curved structures frames it nicely. They emerge from the artificial breastbone and swoops towards the back, echoing the shape of the former ribcage.

“I think I’m gonna be sick again.” Mitch says. He is positioned at Avriel’s head, monitoring his level of consciousness and keeping the morphine ready for another shot. “He doesn’t have any organs left! How can he still… _work_?”

“It's beautiful." Scott whispers. "Horrible, and beautiful." He strokes two fingers along the frayed edge, follows a ridge down over the breastbone. It's smooth, like velvet to his touch, vibrating under his hand with artificial electric energy.

 

 


End file.
